You're not human! indeed
by KariSilver
Summary: Sort of crossover but not really. Sherlock Holmes is a Time Lord. Let the madness ensue. T for language and later on sexual humor.
1. Doctor Watson, meet The Detective

Summary - No idea how to summarize this but, basically, that line in the movie, where Watson tells Sherlock, "You're not human!" well, this is what came of it :)

Disclaimer - I don't own any of this, I'm just playing with it all.

He was stuck, in London. The Detective was stuck in London with no tools, no weapons and no TARDIS. He had only his violin and his wits. And though they were considerable, he was none too happy about being stuck in one time and in one place, especially this place. Nothing was clean, everything was loud and no one was friendly.

"Pardon me sir," said a man who brushed him as he walked by on the pavement. Fine, they were friendly, but he still hated being stuck here. That's the trouble with teleports though, they can be manipulated by the slightest thing and shouldn't ever be used - even as an emergency escape from a criminal's lair.

Ah, well, it seemed as if he had to make his way on the slow path for a while, had he been younger, not even two lives ago, he wouldn't have stood for waiting. Other Time Lords may never show up on this primitive little planet, but as he really had no other choice, he began to walk down the street.

Apart from the noise, the myriad of smells and the general chaos of a planet that hadn't quite begun to grasp the benefit of a daily shower, London was quite enjoyable. Not even a day had gone by and he had already discovered several species that were familiar to him. Granted they needed a few thousand years to evolve to that point in which they would be of any use at all, but that wasn't the point. He eventually found himself in a park, watching things, as he was wont to do.

His eye soon caught on a man, probably in his late twenty's, sitting on a bench, writing. However, he kept looking up, as if waiting for something to happen. After a while, a woman came down the path, hand-in-hand with a young boy, probably only five years old. Almost immediately upon sighting her, the man stood up and walked toward her awkwardly. It was apparent that he was attracted to her, as he handed her a letter, his hand slightly shaking. What was also apparent was how bored the young boy was, he voiced that they would be late, and in doing so manipulated the lady to continue on, glancing back at the man before returning her attention to her charge.

As the man turned around, intending to return to his seat with an utterly blissful look on his face, he found it occupied by a rather scruffy looking man in strange clothes that seemed too big for him. As he began to move away to an unoccupied seat, however, he was stopped when the man asked him a question.

"What was it that you gave her just now?" He was leaning back, arms outstretched along the back of the bench, one hand clutching a violin, so as to make it impossible for another person to sit without resting on his arm.

"I hardly think it is your place to know," he stated. He decided then to go back to his hotel, rather than stay in the park, and turned to leave. It was only after a few steps that he realized the man was following him. "Who are you?" He asked, stopping.

"That's a rather good question," was the enigmatic response. "I don't actually know yet. Still quite new, this body, fresh. I died in the escape I suppose. I was probably transported too far, or through a sun, or something. Judging by the state of my clothes, I'd say it's the latter. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I have to go," And he began to walk briskly, away from the strange man who was now sniffing his clothes and looked as if he might actually even taste them at some point. He made it out of the park this time before the man caught up with him again, his violin still in hand.

"I'm The Detective," He said with a mischievous look on his face, as if he knew a secret about something important that he would let spill at any moment.

"Right and I'm a Doctor," he responded with an edge of sarcasm.

"You're too young to be The Doctor, not to mention, a human."

"I'm a field Medic in the Royal Army," then his face became serious. "Or rather, I was, before..." He trailed off and gained a slight limp to his walk. "My name is John Watson. What should I call you?"

"Watson? Really? John Watson? Well then, I'm Sherlock Holmes," He beamed, as if it were a joke. When his only answer was another half bewildered, half exasperated look, his smile grew. "This is wonderful. Where are we?"

"We are where I leave you, Mr. Holmes," They were standing outside a rather drab looking motel.

"I think not," was all the warning he had before he was being pulled up the street. "As I understand it, you were discharged for being wounded and came to London, and judging by your clothes and choice of residence you were not intending to stay. Then, one day, you meet a beautiful girl in the park and fall in love. Now, you don't want to leave but have no way of really staying. Does that sound correct?"

"Where are you taking me? Let go," He shrugged out of The Detective's grip but continued following him.

"As I was saying," the man stopped, backed up a few paces, and turned toward the house next to them. "We need to find you a proper house if this girl is going to take you seriously. And you need to stop giving her poetry every time you see her in the park."

"She says she enjoys them!"

"She's a governess, she probably says that about the poems her charge writes for her," He looked at John patronizingly. "Now, come, this will be our new home."

"OUR new home!" And he followed the strange man up the steps of 221B, the shout unnoticed by the bustling patrons of Baker Street.

A/N - SOOOOO, I want this to be a sort of combination of the books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC series and the 2009 movie. However it will follow the plot of the movie. After that I may do more but only if requested.

In case you didn't get it, Sherlock Holmes (aka 'The Detective') is a Time Lord in this fic - However, it is NOT going to be a Doctor Who crossover, I wouldn't be able to do it justice :P - So inspired by the point in the movie where the two of them are in jail and Watson says to Holmes, "You're not human!"


	2. Just Another Day

Disclaimer - I don't own any of this, I'm just playing with it all.

Summary - Alright! This chapter will lead in to the movie and include the beginning scene. The more I watch this movie, the more quirks I see that could easily belong to a Time Lord :D I do intend to continue on to the bbc series after I finish this :) I'm just having too much fun!

"Right then, we'll surround the place and catch 'im unnawares," Inspector Lestrade was pacing. In front of him was none other than Doctor Watson and his Detective Holmes. It was the latter man who had him on edge. His second in command, Constable Clark, and a few other of his Officers were present as well. Even so, with that man involved, who knew what would go wrong. That is why Lestrade was making him stay behind. Hiding a smile, he ordered his men out. They'd gather troops and head over to the church's cellar, picking up Holmes on the way.

At least, that's what the man was to THINK they were doing - He had no intentions of actually following through on those plans - He was going to catch this murderer without any "assistance" from Holmes. He was a damned good Inspector and he was determined to prove it. "Remember," he told the meddlesome man who barely looked up from plucking at his violin. "You wait for us. Here. Until I give the order. We will get you once we've gathered the troops."

His only reply was an affirmative nod and a small, "Hmm? Yes, yes," before he continued attending his violin. Lestrade had a funny feeling he wasn't listening to a word he'd said as he left the apartment.

The Detective ran down the streets of London at top speed. Passing carts and people who would never see his face in the dim lighting, and therefore, would only wonder at a man who could run as he was - not only with great speed but also with great precision. He would jump over barriers and puddles and make turns with ease. When he finally reached the church where they believed the girl to be held, he actually vaulted off the staircase onto the brick pavement (rolling to diminish the momentum, of course) with nary a pause or scratch to his body. Kicking down the bolted metal gate, he entered the cellar of the building.

It wasn't long before he found the first hired guard, limping and using a cane, and it took even less time to assess him. _Head cocked to the left, partial deafness in ear. First point of attack. Two, throat. Paralyze vocal chords. Stop screaming. Three, got to be a heavy drinker. Floating rib to the liver. Four, finally, dragging left leg. Fist to patella. Summary of prognosis, unconscious in 90 seconds. Martial efficacy, quarter of an hour, at best. Full faculty recovery, unlikely._

Just as the man turned back to his paces, he moved. Hitting the man's ear before he even realized there was an intruder, then following swiftly with a jab to his throat. Next, a punch to his lower left ribcage, easily hitting through to the liver. As, the man attempted to not fall over, he sunk to the ground, grabbing his left leg and positioning it so as to affect a blow directly to the patella, dislocating the joint entirely.

As the man finally fell, Sherlock picked up his cane as a possible weapon and, noticing his hat, grabbed that too. A friend of his had a thing for hats, at least, in one life he did, in another he was always talking about bananas. Barking mad he was though, never even bothered to fix his TARDIS' Chameleon Circuit. Grabbing the lantern as a last-second thought, he continued down the spiral staircase. He didn't really need it, but figured the man he left at the top would find it even more difficult to get any warning out if he couldn't see.

He entered a well-lit cavernous catacomb to a mumbled chant that sounded something like Earth-Latin, and when he looked saw a crude type of alter that had been at the other four murders. A young woman was convulsing and moaning, at her head a cloaked figure with his arms outstretched - the source of the chanting. Other hired thugs stood around but it was the entrance of another cloaked figure that caught his eye.

However, he only got a glance of the man before he was distracted by a sound and, turning to it, was grabbed by the shoulder. He removed the arm and was pushing the man to his knees when John grabbed the man's head in a choke hold. To speed-along the process of eliminating the thug, he blocked off the man's remaining airway - by plugging his nose.

"I like that hat," Watson greeted, struggling to hold the wrestling man's throat.

"I just picked it up," Holmes responded simply.

_Of course,_ "Did you remember your revolver?" Watson reminded.

"Ah, knew I forgot something," the man they were slowly suffocating was beginning to fall unconscious. "Thought I'd left the stove on."

"You did."

"I think that's quite enough," He said effectively stopping their bantering as well as focusing John's attention on the man passed out in his arms. "You are a Doctor, after all." And after quickly checking for a pulse, John let him fall the rest of the way to the ground. Standing up and extending a hand to his friend, he smirked. The Inspector actually believed that he'd tricked Sherlock Holmes, he was definitely writing this one down in his books.

"Always nice to see you, Watson," he shook his hand. Removing their hats as that joke was now finished, he asked, "Where's the Inspector?"

"He's getting his troops lined up," John straightened his tie, proud that they'd gotten here first. As Lestrade was 'lining up his troops', he'd snuck away to see if he'd beaten Sherlock to the place for once. Unsurprisingly, he hadn't, but that didn't bother him. Also, the hat had made him smile.

Sherlock handed him the cane, "That could be all day." They quickly descended the remaining staircase, to the floor of the cellar. Sherlock went around to the left and John took the right. And while Sherlock did get fired at, John got bitten. It took all of thirty seconds to incapacitate the men, during which, Holmes noticed the second cloaked man slipped out in the bustle.

Watson pulled out his gun but before he could fire it, was grabbed by the leg. While Watson clubbed the man on his leg, Holmes grabbed the knife from the girl before she could harm herself. When he did, an ethereal wind swept the room, affectively blowing out all the torches, leaving only the moonlight. He pocketed the knife and brandished the club at the cloaked figure.

"Sherlock Holmes," The man stated. "And his loyal dog. Tell me, Doctor... As a medical man, have you enjoyed my work?"

This angered the already brassed off Watson, "Let me show you how much I've enjoyed it." He stormed up to the man, intending to hit him with the cane. He was stopped by his friend, however, grabbing him about the waist and yelling his name.

"Watson! Don't," He pulled him back, "Observe."

John looked, following his line of sight, until he noticed a faint glimmer directly in front of his eyes. It was a shaped piece of glass that, had he hit the man as intended, would have impaled his head. "How did you see that?" He lowered the cane, glancing at the faintly lighted windows. He could barely see the man standing in front of him, let alone a nearly invisible weapon.

"Because I was looking for it," and he smashed it in between the two clubs he had collected. Watson raised his gun to the man again, this time at point blank range, as Holmes pushed back the man's hood.

"Lord Blackwood," John recgonized.

Blackwood glanced at Holmes then returned his attention to Watson, "You seem surprised."

Sherlock stepped in before he could say anything further, "I think the girl deserves your attention more than he."

"Indeed," he acquiesced. However, he finished his demonstration of his 'appreciation' to Blackwood, striking him with the butt of his gun before walking past to attend the girl. Sherlock smirked and twirled the billy clubs a few times before tucking them under his arms to greet the entering Inspector.

He turned in time to see him kick a gun away from a crawling thug, patronizingly. "Oh, I'd leave that alone if I were you, boy-o," pointing his own gun at the man on the ground.

"Impeccable timing, Lestrade," He would have clapped were his hands not resting comfortably on the end of his two new favorite weapons. "We've one for the Doctor," he gestured with his head to the girl still on the alter. "And one for the rope," his gaze rested on Blackwood. The Inspector had his men take Blackwood and at Watson's insistence, take the girl to Hospital on their fastest cart.

Turning to The Detective, he glared, "And you were supposed to wait for my orders."

"If I had, you'd be cleaning up a corpse and chasing a rumor," he circled the man, knowing what his intentions had been. But no one was better than him, especially on this planet. "Besides, the girl's parents hired me, not the Yard." He stopped and looked him directly in the eyes, "Why they thought you'd require any assistance is beyond me."

"Well," he stopped him. "London will breath a sigh of relief."

"Indeed," John spoke to the Inspector directly. "Congratulations, Lestrade."

Not wanting to be shown up by Watson, The Detective added in his own praise, "Bravo, Inspector. Have a cigar." But was denied any response, by a man attempting to take their picture. Fortunately, Sherlock was able to cover his face in time. He had grown fond of this planet (Gods help him) and were he ever to somehow get another TARDIS, he would visit it at it's other times. But, having his picture in a 1890's paper would not sit well with someone in, say, the 25th century. Just another day finished.

A/N - I'm not happy with that last pharagraph :( But I'm honestly too tired to bother at the moment. I'll probably tweak it later. I intend to update this about once a week, as weekends are my only days off, but I'll probably do two chapters at a time :) I atayed up to post this chapter because it was brought to my attention that the system said I already had Chapter two up, even though I didn't. Well, here it is :) Enjoy!


	3. In The Meantime

Disclaimer - I don't own any of this, I'm just playing with it all.

Summary - This chapter will be a series of shorts that encompass the time in between the opening scene and the beginning scene of the movie.

His closet was impeccable, if he did say so himself. For being limited to scratchy, singular material and a very specific style, he had a vast wardrobe. Granted, about half of it belonged to Watson. He deliberately picked a shirt that he'd taken from John the week before to wear out to dinner with the man.

Just as he was discarding his day clothes, none other than Mrs. Hudson came in the room carrying a rag and various cleaning supplies.

"Nanny!" He exclaimed. "Get out, everything is in it's proper place. Your services will not be needed here today."

Appalled that she had walked in on one of her tenants only half-dressed, she only partly heard what the man had said as she stormed back out of the room. One thing she refused to allow her mind to register was that Sherlock had kept undressing as if nothing was amiss.

...

"What are you doing?" John asked, somewhat exasperated. He had begun to pack more of his belongings, when Holmes had grabbed his head and stared intently at him. He'd been at it for a full thirty seconds before John came to his senses. "You can't postpone this any longer, Sherlock," He paused and the man moved away abruptly, mumbling to himself. "I AM moving out."

He was studying a pair of spectacles now, his continuous mumble becoming more excited. John, took a deep breath, "I want you to know, Sherlock. I do still love you. You have become my best friend, even though you're ... so ... different," He smirked.

Sherlock had by this time gathered so many different chemicals and minerals around him, he'd lost sight of the spectacles. However, he picked them up again as John called his name. "Have you been listening to a word I've said?" Holmes then proceeded to remove the lenses from the wire frame. Glancing up he did a double-take, as if just noticing John's presence.

"Ah, Watson!" He went back to working, "Did you just say something?" John just sighed again and went back to packing his things. As he walked away, Sherlock looked up at his retreating form, an illegible look on his face. After a moment, he looked back to his work and began to boil the lenses in a mixture.

...

John had been gone for hours now and Sherlock couldn't sleep. Just as they had gotten home, a messenger had called for Watson to assist with a birth. Apparently there were complications and the midwife didn't know what else to do. Medicine these days felt like the Dark Ages, if it weren't for John these people would die out within a generation. He'd just given up with his violin when the door opened, slowly.

John walked into the room and sat in his chair, no feeling in his eyes and no emotion in his stance. "John," Sherlock spoke, softly.

Watson flinched as if he'd been struck. Staring at Holmes now, like he'd seen a ghost. "I've seen many good men and women die. Too many."

"Yes."

"But it doesn't actually bother me anymore," He mused out loud, his voice regaining his emotion.

"Indeed."

"But-" His voice cracked and he made eye contact, a tear fell down his cheek. "This was a baby. She'd been alive not minutes, Holmes. And there was nothing I could do to save her." The tears fell freely now and all he could do was stare at Sherlock, begging him with his eyes. "Why does that small life lost hurt so much?"

Holmes got up from his chair, pulled the man to his feet and embraced him tightly, "Because you're human." Was the simple answer. "And that is such a wonderful, marvelous, brilliant thing to be." They stayed like that until John was once again collected. Being a doctor he saw death every day, and brushed it off easily-he had to. But the fact that he was still effected every now and then, reminded him of how precious life and love and friendship and just LIVING was. And he was Human. And that was precious too.

...

"Damn!" The curse was loud enough to wake Watson up. But it was the repeated, if muffled, curses that caused him to stumble down the stairs to where Holmes was attempting to put out a fire with one hand. The other was wrapped crudely in a dish towel and cradled close to his body.

"What have you done now?" He rushed to help him put the fire out, by dumping the contents of the teapot onto the desk. He then took the towel from Holmes to attempt to clean up that mess when he realized that it was covered in blood. "Damn indeed," he sighed and went to grab Holmes's hand but it was snatched away. "I need to see what you've done to yourself."

"It's nothing," He said abruptly and walked swiftly to the kitchen. He grabbed another towel and proceeded to wrap his hand once again. "I'll be right as rain in no time, you'll see." He wavered a little bit, and grabbed on to the table top to help him remain standing. "Perhaps I should sit down for a bit."

Watson reached him before he fell over and guided him to his favorite chair. Unwrapping his hand again, he wiped the remaining blood off and examined the large cut across the palm. He had sliced the base part of his thumb up, as if he had grabbed the wrong end of a knife. "You need stitches. Stay here." Pointing at the chair to further impress his point, he wrapped the man's hand in the towel again and went to grab his kit.

"I'm not giving you anything for the pain," He said upon returning. "Because you've probably got enough of that in your system right now."

"It helps me think," was the sluggish reply.

"You know what would help more?" He responded sharply. "Sleep! You're going to kill yourself if you carry on like this."

"I don't need sleep."

"Maybe not AS MUCH sleep, granted," He conceded. "But you do need SOME sleep." He began stitching the skin together with his swift and practiced hand. "I don't care who or what you say you are, you need sleep."

He finished the stitches and looked up to reprimand the man again to find that he had indeed fallen asleep. With an exasperated sigh, he cleaned up his kit, finished cleaning up the remains of the fire and the teapot, draped a blanked over his friend and returned to bed. He had plans to scold him in the morning but for now, John would let him sleep.

...

Holmes searched through Watson's medicine box. Most of the things in it he couldn't use but one in particular induced a rather euphoric affect, akin to what it would be if he could get drunk. He had just solved a major case in which a young woman was murdered quite gruesomely. The killer had been her own sister. The truth was, he probably wouldn't have caught her if Watson hadn't been there. The man had anticipated that she would jump from the roof rather than be arrested and had grabbed her just in time. Sherlock had realized too late.

He didn't want John to leave, thus he raided the man's medicine box.

...

"What is this?" John held up what appeared to be a dress. He had been raiding Sherlock's closet in order to recover as much of his stolen clothing that he could while the man was out. As if he'd known that John would attempt such a thing, he arrived home before the man could really begin his investigation.

"I do believe, it's a dress," Sherlock answered sarcastically. "And it's mine." He snatched the article away and hung it in it's proper place, closing the wardrobe before Watson could do anything further.

"I can see that," John replied. "What I don't understand is why it's in your wardrobe. Have you been stealing from Mrs. Hudson's closets now, as well?"

"Hardly," He scoffed. "Why would I wear clothes that smell so ..." He cringed, "flowery? Not much of an outfit if you can't stand the smell. Your clothing, now that's a different story." He smirked at the man and John raised the single piece of clothing that he'd been able to rescue to his face, sniffing it. Did Sherlock just say that he liked to smell like him?

"Besides," He continued. "Why should I limit my wardrobe to that of just one sex? Really, Watson." He shook his head as if John were a fool, going on about all the styles of dress in 19th century London. John simply ignored him.

...

"Mr. Holmes, I am your landlady, not your nanny."

"No?" He answered sarcastically. "Why, I was under the impression that you were. Always attempting to clean things, insisting I go to bed at 'decent' hours, and fixing tea that can only be taken as poison." He paused significantly. "Wouldn't you agree, Nanny?"

A/N - I'm not particularly happy with this chapter. Partly because I can't figure out if I want John to know that Holmes is an alien and if so how to write it.


	4. Wake Up Sherlock

Disclaimer - I don't own any of this, I'm just playing with it all.

Summary - Back to the movie now. I will be including little "Deleted Scenes" as I see fit though they're not actual deleted scenes from the movie.

John was just finishing up with one of his regulars. The man was aging and therefore needed to see him on a weekly basis. "156/80. Very good."

"My nerves are the best they've been in years, thanks to you," His patient remarked. "Tell me something, your new premises," he made small talk. "When are you moving in?"

"I should be in within the week," He answered. He'd told all his patients when he would be moving what felt like a thousand times already. "Cavendish Place." He smiled, "And there'll be a woman's touch too."

"Well that's marvelous," The man put his jacket back on.

"Indeed," They were interrupted suddenly by the sound of gunshots from the next room.

"Good God!" His blood pressure had undoubtedly risen in those last few seconds. "That was gunfire."

"No," Watson immediately pacified. "No, no. Hammer and nail, wasn't it? My colleague's probably just putting up a painting. I'll - I'll go check."

As he was leaving to confront Sherlock, his patient stopped him, "You're colleague..."

"Yes?" He turned.

"He won't be moving with you, will he?" It was almost a plea.

Watson turned, "No he won't."

Out in the hallway, he came across Mrs. Hudson, their landlady. It seemed as though she had been bringing up the paper, though she seemed hesitant to actually enter the rooms. "I won't go in there by myself, not while he's got a gun in his hand."

"You don't have to go in there, at all," He soothed. "Give me the paper."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him gratefully then sighed, as if stressed, "What'll I do when you leave Doctor? He'll have the whole house down."

"He just needs another case," John explained. He wondered how this poor woman would manage, yet still had the utmost confidence in her. "That's all."

She looked hopeful at her next statement. "Couldn't you have a longer engagement?" Watson laughed sympathetically but was spared the need for a response when his patent burst out of the office.

"I smell gunpowder," He exclaimed. "It's not right, you know, not in a domestic environment." Another shot sounded, making the occupants of the hall duck, instinctually.

"Thank you, Captain Phillips," He turned to Mrs. Hudson, imploring her. "Perhaps a nice cup of tea." She understood him and took the Captains arm. "Same time next week."

"Come along, Captain," She led him away. "It's quieter downstairs."

John called out to the landlady before she was out of earshot, "Mrs. Hudson?" He asked quickly. "Bring something to cheer him up." Her response was an exasperated sigh.

Steeling himself, Watson prepared to enter the room. Sighing, he knocked, then opened the door. He wasn't able to open it entirely though, because Holmes was blocking it slightly with the leg of the chair he lounged in. In his hand was a gun with a peculiarly long muzzle. "Permission to enter the armory?" He asked sarcastically.

"Granted," Holmes replied with a final shot of the gun. John observed the initials V.R. had been made from the bullet holes but didn't spare a thought to the old case they'd taken, which no doubt Holmes was reminiscing, judging by the wall. "Watson," He called to his friend. "I am in the process of inventing a device that suppresses the sound of a gunshot. Though I don't know if I can be credited in inventing it as it will already have been invented in about 30 years time."

At that moment, John flung open the curtains, causing sunlight to stream into the once pitch-dark room and dragging a scream from Sherlock at the shock to his sensitive eyes. "It's not working," Watson didn't apologize. "Can I see that?" And he took the proffered gun from Holmes's outstretched hand.

Setting the gun down on the desk, he attempted to tidy things up, giving up when he noticed a pile of letters. He grabbed said letters and went to take the kettle off the fire as it's whistling was starting to get unbearable. For good measure he put the fire out as well. Sniffing the contents of the goblet before dousing the fire, of course, in the possibility that it were alcohol. He rarely found Holmes drinking, as he preferred to steal drugs from him or use his own, but better safe than sorry.

"You know, it's been three months since your last case."

"Yes, yes," Then he noticed Watson headed for the other curtains. "Gently, gently, Watson," His pleas grew more desperate as he saw the attitude of the man's stride. "Be gentle with me -" He screamed out and fell over as even more light entered the room.

John glanced at him, sparing nothing for his melodramatics, and began to skim the letters in his hand. "Don't you think it's time you found another one?" He didn't know if he just meant a case, or if the question went deeper.

Holmes was crawling along the floor, seeking a place to recover from the shock to his system, once his mind got going, his Time Lord body would catch up and throw the chemicals. "I agree. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems. Give me work." He had made it to where Watson was standing, "The sooner the better."

Watson handed him the paper as he sat in the chair that had been Holmes's destination, unfazed when the man simply rested on his leg rather than go to the other chair. "Let's see, then. There's a letter here from Mrs. Ramsey of Queen's Park. Her Husband's disappeared."

Without halting his reading of the paper, Sherlock answered, "He's in Belgium with the scullery maid." Catching sight of the date on the paper, he began to read the paper more intently. "Is it November?" He looked up, shock and sadness and a multitude of other things written on his face.

"Yes Holmes," John said in a softened tone, "All right. Lady Radford reports..." He read through the woman's drivel, "Oh," He found the point of the letter. "Her emerald bracelet has disappeared."

"Insurance swindle," Sherlock seemed to have pulled himself together, again reading the paper as he answered. "Lord Radford likes fast women and slow ponies."

"Oh," reaching a concerning point of the front article, he couldn't look at the man whom he rested on. "I see you're the attending physician at Blackwood's hanging."

"Yes," His tone went soft again. "It was our last case together and I wanted to see it through to the end." Holmes looked pained at those words, looking sadly again into the distance. John noted that he hardly ever showed emotion besides boredom and amusement. So, seeing his friend so hurt pulled at his heart. He cleared his throat at the knocking on the door and Holmes stopped resting on Watson's leg lest Mrs. Hudson infer things that his friend might find bothersome. Especially as he was an engaged man.

He interrupted John, who had continued reading the letters, "There's only one case that intrigues me at present." His tone was sarcastic and his eyes piercing. He glared at the woman who he felt was helping push Watson away. "The curious case of Mrs. Hudson, the absentee landlady." The woman in question stopped in her tracks and sighed over the tea tray in her hands, waiting for the man to relax. "I've been studying her comings and goings. They appear most sinister."

The moment Holmes's mouth had shut she spoke, "Tea, Mr. Holmes?" All politeness and grace, walking once again to the men, who spend too much time together, in her opinion. She had begun to think they enjoyed each other's company too much until Dr. Watson miraculously announced his engagement.

"Is it poisoned, nanny?" He spat the epithet. The woman had started treating him like a child since Watson began to move out, and he disliked it greatly. So, if she was going to act as his nanny, he'd call her such.

"There's enough of that in you already," Implying not only that he was a harsh man but also that she knew about how often he used his drugs and chemicals for "recreation". She handed the tea tray to the good Doctor, who had risen to take it, and picked up the old one, causing a shout from Holmes.

"Don't touch!" He said. "Everything is in it's proper place, as per usual, nanny."

She spared him but a glance and simply walked away. Noticing Gladstone on the floor she shot a parting statement, "He's killed the dog," Very matter-of-fact. "Again."

Alarmed that he hadn't noticed, John scurried over to the bull dog, "What have you done to Gladstone now?" He checked for breathing and a heartbeat.

"I," Holmes said, pride in his tone as he stood. "Was simply testing a new anesthetic." Then to reassure his friend he added, "He doesn't mind."

After assuring himself that his four legged companion was in fact, not dead, he stood to confront The Detective. "Holmes," His face said 'I don't care what you say, you can NOT talk to animals' and his tone was as if speaking to a stubborn child. "As your Doctor -"

"He'll be right as a trivet in no time," Sherlock interrupted.

"As your friend," He raised his voice to speak over the man. He paused, making sure the he got his meaning. He continued only when Holmes sat down. "You've been in this room for two weeks. I insist, you have to get out."

"There's nothing of interest for me out there," He crossed his legs, getting comfortable. "On Earth," He looked at John. "At all."

John looked away, trying to not become angry at one of the two most important people in his life. Then an idea struck him, "So you're free this evening?"

"Absolutely," he would take any time he could get with the man before that woman took him away.

Perfect, "Dinner?"

Yes, "Wonderful."

"The Royal?" Mary and he had a table booked.

"My favourite," Not true but he didn't mind.

He paused, briefly, "Mary's coming." And turned to walk away. He hoped to escape before the man could protest.

Holmes was horrified, he did not want to meet any such woman who could corrupt his Watson into leaving him. "Not available."

"You're meeting her, Holmes!" He stopped to say, determined for the man to realize it.

He turned away to play with something on the desk, until a thought caught his attention, "Have you proposed yet?" There was a challenge written on his face.

He waited a moment before answering, judging what the man's reaction would be. "No," He glanced away before making eye contact again. "I haven't found the right ring." Sherlock would count that as a victory.

"Well then," He stated, smugly. "It's not official."

"It's happening," he willed the man to understand, to read his mind or feelings or whatever it is he says that he can do, as long as he accepted it. "Weather you like it or not," Giving him no chance to respond he continued out of the room, "8:30, The Royal. Wear a Jacket!"

He stubbornly replied with a popular insult, a century ahead of it's time, "You wear a jacket!"

...

He dressed carefully for the night, actually having washed his hair, though he didn't shave. He decided on not one, but two pieces of his outfit that he'd gained from John's wardrobe. There was no doubt that that woman would be wearing some flowery perfume, and he'd rather smell Watson on his person than her. His cravat and his undershirt were both John's and he completed the outfit with the hat he'd acquired during their last case. Checking the mirror, he steeled himself to be civil, determined to make an effort for Watson. Even though really he didn't want to.

A/N - Sooooooo, I've watched this movie a total of three times now and the BBC Sherlock twice. I'm trying to make it so that you can tell what their thoughts are in between the dialogue (I'd do it in Italics but I don't know the typing code for it to work on this site) At this point, I've got John knowing that Sherlock BELIEVE's himself to be a Time Lord but I have John disbelieving him.


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